


Pity the Child

by Cinaed



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Canon, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-02
Updated: 2007-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chase isn't quite sure why, of all people, it is Wilson who is currently sitting across from him in this slummy bar; he suspects, perhaps, that this is simply the universe's idea of irony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pity the Child

**Author's Note:**

> Set post "Cursed," non-canon compliant post-season one.

_Pity the child who knew his parents  
Saw their faults, saw their love die before his eyes  
Pity the child that wise  
He never asked "Did I cause your distress?"  
Just in case they said "Yes." _

~"Pity the Child" from the musical Chess: New York

Chase isn't quite sure why, of all people, it is Wilson who is currently sitting across from him in this slummy bar, pale green neon-lights casting shadows on his face. Perhaps it is because Foreman is off at a conference in San Francisco, and that leaves Cameron, and he isn't in the mood for her to sob consolingly onto his shoulder when he tells her that his father is dead. He suspects, perhaps, that this is simply the universe’s idea of irony, that the _oncologist_ would be the one to find him slumped against his car after getting the news that his father has died of cancer. 

He shouldn't be drinking. He knows this, and yet he downs a second tumbler of gin and tonic and slams it down onto the table. The swallowing is like a sudden, deep throb of a bass guitar and the thud is like a single pound of a drum, like some twisted mockery of a requiem that has forgotten its own melody. (_Requiem aeternam dona defunctis, Domine_, he thinks with a bitter twist of his lips, and wonders if his mother is in Heaven or Hell. He doesn't wonder about his father -- he suspects he already knows.) He definitely shouldn’t be drinking the same type of alcohol that dragged his mother down into the nightmare also known as alcoholism, but that is what escaped his lips when the waitress smiled and asked. _(“My poison? Gin and tonic, thank you,” he says, and disregards the quizzical look from Wilson as he suddenly laughs, the sound hoarse and bitter.)_ 

He calls for another tumbler, and ignores the concerned look that Wilson directs at him. It is the same worried look that has been on the older man's face since the parking lot, and Chase suspects it is the one that he wears after he has just told a patient she has only a few weeks to live and he is waiting for her reaction. Chase knocks back the third tumbler, and is vaguely relieved to find that the alcohol has started to overwhelm the taste of ashes. 

_(The letter from the lawyer ends up at the hospital. It is the second one sent because the first one mailed to his P.O. Box wasn’t answered -- it’s been a busy month, and Chase keeps forgetting to go to the post office and check his mail; he is sure he has several bills that are now overdue. He makes the mistake of reading the letter aloud, to test the validity of the man's crisp, professional words, and at the word "deceased" the taste of ashes overwhelm his senses -- he wonders if his mother's urn is still in Sydney at his grandfather's house -- until his throat seizes up and his eyes blur. Now he is slumped against the cool metal of his car, forehead pressed against the window-shield, one hand resting on the handle of the door. He had meant to go home, but somehow his strength is gone now, and it is all he can do just to remain standing._

"Dr. Chase?" The soft voice's familiarity does not bring strength back into his limbs as he hopes, unfortunately, and so Chase remains slumped against his car, eyes closed. There is a pause, and then a warm hand touches his shoulder, the sensation feather-soft. "Dr. Chase, are you all right?"

He does not answer, both because his throat is clogged by bitter ashes and because he doesn’t know what to say, and after a moment the hand presses down slightly.

"Let me take you home," Dr. Wilson says softly behind him, and Chase finds strength he doesn't know he has to lift his head and blink at the reflection of the oncologist's worried face. 

His voice is still smothered by ashes, though, and so he just manages a nod of agreement. It only when he spots a dingy bar on their way to his apartment that his throat unlocks and he whispers, "I need a drink.") 

Chase looks across the table, and asks, "You knew?"

"Yes," says Wilson, and Chase is almost grateful that the other man isn't going to pretend to be confused. The concerned expression is briefly replaced by a rueful smile. "Patient-confidentiality--"

"Did House know?" He doesn't want to hear Wilson's excuses, not because he thinks they will make him angry, but because they honestly don't matter. He frowns at the waitress's raised eyebrow when he waves her down for another tumbler, but forgives her when she sets another gin and tonic in front of him. 

The rueful smile contorts, becomes almost wary, as though Wilson thinks that Chase will go charging after House at the truth, and then he nods, slowly. "Your father asked him not to say anything," he adds, as though that counts for something. 

Chase snorts at that. "Since when has House obeyed anyone's wishes?" The 'besides yours' is left unspoken, even as he remembers that he got the job because his father pulled some strings, and muses that perhaps Rowan Chase had something on House. (Whatever it is, he is certain he doesn't want to know.) He downs the third -- no, the fourth -- tumbler, and is rewarded by the sensation of the alcohol finally hitting his system, creating a pleasant buzz in his mind and a lovely numbness that banishes the taste of ashes at last. 

He has missed Wilson's response, but decides it doesn't matter as he licks his lips and tastes the gin still lingering there. His mother's kisses had always tasted like a mixture of gin, tonic, and regret, and he wonders what his father's would have tasted like if Rowan Chase had ever bothered to kiss him. At the thought, he starts to flag down another waitress, and frowns when Wilson grabs his hand and says, "You've had four tumblers in under an hour -- that's enough." 

Chase glares in defiance and jerks his hand away, signaling the nearest waitress. And damn it all if it isn't the same one who raised her eyebrow last time, and he can already see that she is Wilson's latest partner-in-crime and that a fifth tumbler is an impossible dream -- he attempts to ask anyway, and mutters "Fuck you" at them both when she refuses to get him another gin and tonic, earning a pissed-off glare from the waitress and a slight, almost amused smirk from Wilson.

His hands fiddle with the empty tumbler glasses, arranging them on the table for the lack of anything else to do. He gazes wistfully at the Whiskey Sour the other man is nursing, and his fingers twitch, wanting to reach across the table and steal the drink. 

Wilson sets the glass down, only half-empty, and says, "Well, you've had your drink -- four even. Let's get you home."

Home? The pleasant buzz is abruptly replaced by rage, so sharp and sudden that Wilson actually flinches at the expression on Chase's face, and he finds himself wanting to punch the startled look off the other doctor's face, because maybe _then_ he’ll be left to his own devices and be able to drink until he’s out cold. 

"Why are you even _here_?" he snaps, and only realizes the snap was loud enough to be considered a shout when people twist in their seats to stare. 

He glares back, loathing them all. What do _they_ know? They don't understand, they couldn't possibly see-- One of the bar's other patrons is stupid enough to keep staring, and locks gazes with him. "What are _you_ looking at?" he finds himself snarling, sounding like a wounded animal as the words come out harsh and loud and raspy. 

The man is obviously still on his first or second drink, because he smiles unconcernedly back, oblivious to Chase's mounting rage. His muscles are knotted, hands clenched into fists that want to smash that unconcerned look right off the fool's face, which is even more irritating than the startled look on Wilson’s--

Wilson's voice cuts through his heated fury, and he turns his glower upon the oncologist as the older man says firmly, "We're leaving." 

"You can't tell me what to do," Chase retorts, and in the back of his mind admits to himself that that sounds petulant, child-like really. That doesn't stop him from fumbling for Wilson's whiskey, or from cursing, loudly and violently, when his shaking hands knock the drink onto its side. He stares at the liquid spreading across the table, and suddenly realizes what a horrible color Whiskey Sours are. It reminds him of piss and vomit and Chase doesn't realize he's doubled over until those gentle hands are on his shoulders again and Wilson is murmuring softly, "Deep breaths, Chase." 

Deep breaths? He doesn’t understand Wilson’s words for a second, but then he hears his own breathing -- the harsh, pained pants fill his ears until all he can hear is the jerky, struggled gasping and the soft tone of Wilson's voice, although the meaning of the other man’s words are lost to him. Wilson sounds vaguely apologetic though, and Chase wonders if he is saying sorry to the bar’s denizens or to him. 

Strong, confident hands help him to his feet, and lead him away, he hopes towards the door -- at the very least it is away from the spilt drink. Chase cannot help wondering if Wilson would have an answer should he ask, "It was a letter telling me of _his_ death, so why am I reliving my mother's?" (_"I’m so very sorry," the paramedic says apologetically, her eyes earnest_ and she is so much like Cameron that he would have laughed if he wasn't so busy struggling to breathe.) 

The weakness returns with a vengeance as soon as Wilson settles him into the car seat, and the sudden flaccidity of his arms and legs comes with an all encompassing weariness that makes him want to close his eyes and not wake up for a long, _long_ while, if at all. His eyes half-shut on their own, and he lets them close all the way as his lungs continue to labor for oxygen. Gradually, the tightness in his chest eases, and he can hear himself think. 

His thoughts are slow, as weary as his body, and struggle to make themselves known. He wonders if it was an open casket. _(He watches the crowd which has come to the viewing, hating them, as his mother's body is shown off to everyone who has a wish to gawk before she is burned to ashes.)_ Did anyone notice that Chase hadn't been there?_(It is a warm, windless day, and he sweats and fidgets in his black suit and tie, wondering if anyone else notices that Rowan Chase is not at his ex-wife’s memorial service.)_Was his father alone when he died, or did he have nurses and doctors clustered around him, weeping at the loss to the medical community? _(The house is quiet, as always at three o’clock in the afternoon -- by then his mother is usually passed out drunk or well on her way -- and so a minute stretches into two after he sees her sprawled-out form on the carpet before he realizes that she is dead rather than just dead-drunk. He wills himself to cry, but all he feels is oddly impassive and his eyes remain dry. He cries two weeks later when he is walking in the back blocks and a homeless man with gin on his breath and his mother’s desperate eyes approaches him and slurs, “Got any spare change, mate?”)_

"I need you to stay awake, Chase." Again, Wilson's voice slips into his melancholy thoughts and scatters them. "I don't exactly know where you live, and I doubt you want to end up on House's couch tonight." 

His brow furrows at that for a moment before he remembers that Wilson is going through another divorce (third time isn’t a charm, no matter what fools say), therefore sleeping at House’s place, and that is enough incentive for Chase to open his eyes enough to see the road-signs. Somehow he manages to mumble instructions to his apartment, even as his fingers itch for another tumbler glass and he feels the bitter taste of ashes gradually return to his mouth. At least there is vodka in his refrigerator -- once Wilson leaves he can burn the taste away with as many shots as he wants. 

That promise of taste-numbing vodka is what keeps him from protesting as Wilson maneuvers him from the car and up the stairs to his apartment, plucks his keys from a pocket, and prods him in the direction of the couch, like some teenager who isn’t able to hold his drink. 

“You can go now,” Chase says, once he has been placed onto the couch, feet propped up on the nearby coffee table, and even manages a smile towards the other man. He tries hard not to stare longingly in the direction of the kitchen where the vodka is waiting, because he suspects that Wilson would get rid of the alcohol if he knew about the bottle. _(“You threw out all the gin, Robbie?” she cries, recoiling as though he has slapped her, glassy eyes blinking in hurt bewilderment, and the insincerity of his lie is like vinegar on his tongue as he mumbles, “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”)_ 

Wilson raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling in amusement. “Your BAC % is probably about .13, based off those four gin and tonics. That means lack of physical control, gross motor impairment, loss of balance, dysphoria…all of which means you probably shouldn’t be left alone,” he concludes, ticking the symptoms off on his hand as he rattles them off. 

The vodka is singing a siren song, and Chase glares venomously at the other man. Now he understands why Odysseus tried to throw his men overboard when they tied him to the mast and kept him from the sirens. “This is why you _never_ drink with doctors,” he mumbles, well aware that he’s whining. When Wilson doesn’t leave, and in fact puts his hands on his hips and just _looks_ at him, he adds, “That means go away.” 

Instead, the oncologist sits next to him on the couch, grabs the remote, and turns on the television. Apparently Wilson is good at ignoring people’s comments. Then again, he’s best friends with House. Maybe you automatically ignore certain remarks after a while just to keep from becoming a constant pawn in one of House’s nefarious schemes. 

Chase glares at the television, especially when a Budweiser commercial taunts him and the siren song hits a particularly sweet note in his head. “Going away does not mean sitting on my couch,” he informs Wilson, and scowls when he is ignored. Every passing moment strengthens the sensation of ashes until they are coating his tongue and blocking up his throat; he repeatedly swallows, again and again and again, until Wilson glances over and raises an eyebrow. 

“Need a drink,” Chase explains, clearing his throat once more, and the words come out gritty and more desperate than he would’ve liked. At Wilson’s, “I’ll get you some water,” he sighs in defeat and presses a hand against his mouth. As he suspected, the salt of his sweat is not enough to drive away the ashes. 

He stares at the glass and its clear liquid, and tries to pretend it is vodka, raising it in a mock-toast to Wilson and uttering in a hoarse, sing-song mumble something he remembers the priest singing at his mother’s memorial service -- _“Dies irae, dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla” _\-- then he drinks the water like a shot, tilting his head and swallowing desperately.

The gin, tonic, and ashes are all swept away by the pureness of the water (better than vodka, he thinks in surprise), and for an instant he actually smiles, earning an approving look from the older doctor, and for a moment he thinks that maybe Wilson isn’t a bad drinking buddy at all. 

Then suddenly his stomach twists, and he is vomiting over the armrest of the couch onto the pristine carpet that the last owners had installed and he’s been too lazy to get rid of. He finds himself astonished at the way his stomach could suddenly rebel against him with no warning at all -- shouldn’t there be _some_ warning? “Shit,” he breathes out, and finds himself ridiculously relieved that his vomit doesn’t taste like ashes. Still, the taste of gin and tonic is back, his stomach still roiling, and he squeezes his eyes shut and forces out a, “Ginger ale, in the fridge.” The ginger ale is next to the vodka, and if Wilson messes with that bottle Chase is going to _kill_ him, slowly and painfully. 

It is a moment, or perhaps an eon later, when gentle fingers brush his hair away from his face, and Wilson wipes at Chase’s mouth with a cool, wet towel. _(“Here, Mum,” he says softly, and brushes her matted hair away from the back of her neck before he presses a cool cloth there, earning a half-whimper, half-sigh of thanks as she huddles next to the toilet.)_ 

The oncologist holds a can of ginger ale to the Chase’s lips, and he sips slowly, cautiously, praying that this will dispel the nausea. At the very least, he doesn’t vomit it back up, and that is something. 

“I should’ve told you to drink the water slowly,” Wilson says, and sounds frustrated at his own oversight. The frustration doesn’t show in the gentle touches that help Chase move to one of his plush chairs and far away from the mess he’s left on the carpet. “I’m going to call House and tell him that I’m staying for a while.” 

“Don’t tell him I vomited,” he mumbles, figuring House would have way too much fun with his misery. There has to be _some_ sort of joke about British not holding their alcohol…. God, is he calling himself British in his head now? He decides to blame it on the four gin and tonics, and rests his head in his hands as Wilson speaks to House. 

“House? I’m at Chase’s--” The oncologist pauses, and makes a noise of exasperation tinged with fondness. “Very funny. He’s had a bit too much to drink, so I won’t be there for a while.” Another pause, and then a noise of pure exasperation this time. “Oh yes, House, I’m going to _so_ take advantage of him. Wait until he passes out and pick his pockets! Foreman should be able to tell you that doctors have the most cash on them at all times, so they’re the best to mug, after all-- Look, I’ll be there eventually. Don’t wait up.” 

In the ensuing silence, Chase says, head still resting in his hands, “You can pick my pockets, you know. You paid for my drinks, it’s only fair.” 

Wilson doesn’t respond, and instead asks if he wants some more ginger ale. 

He lifts his head at that, and blinks. When did Wilson walk over to stand in front of him? Apparently oncologists were stealthy. “Yeah, some more would be good, thanks,” he says, and forces himself to smile. It feels odd on his face, and he is certain the smile is crooked and bitter. “The taste of ginger ale’s much better than vomit.” After a few more sips that banish the sharp taste of alcohol and the acidic feel of vomit from his mouth, he adds, “You can go to House’s. I’ll be fine.” 

Again, Wilson just _looks_ at him, and Chase remembers why he shouldn’t go drinking with doctors. “And if I go, you’re not going to go and drink that entire bottle of vodka, I suppose?” he remarks, with that ironic half-smile of his and only a hint of dry sarcasm in his voice. 

He grimaces before he can control his expression, and inwardly groans. “_Please_ tell me you didn’t pour it down the drain.” 

“I’ll pay you back,” is how Wilson answers his question.

The vodka’s siren song is cut off in mid-note at the knowledge of its own death, and in the subsequent quiet, Chase finds himself missing the noise that had drowned out his memories. Now he’s stuck with his thoughts again. Slumping in the chair, he sighs and rubs at his face. He looks up to see Wilson just standing there, looking, and frowns at him. “It was damn expensive vodka, you know.” 

Wilson offers a faint shrug at that, unrepentant. “Like I said, I’ll pay you back.” 

Then there is silence again, and Chase’s thoughts grow louder and louder, memories resurfacing that were really better repressed. _(“Where are you going?” he whispers, taking in the suitcases piled by the door, and his father’s silence is answer enough -- then he realizes, as his father clears his throat and says, “Robert, I’ve decided to change my life,” that he would’ve preferred the silence.)_ 

Out of desperation more than anything else, he begins to speak, and mentally curses as his thoughts decide to leap off his tongue. “House was going to tell me about the cancer, I think. You know what I told him when he said he knew I hated my dad?” He halts, tongue tripping over the words now and yet still struggling to be voiced, and when he finally gets them out, the words are flavored by such self-hatred and despair that it is like a mouthful of lemon juice. “I said that I didn’t hate my dad, that I loved him until I figured out it hurt a lot less to just not care.” He laughs bitterly at that, and looks up at Wilson, unable to read his expression. The words are a mere whisper as he says, “You know what I did then? I went and tried to invite my dad for a drink. So much for not caring.” 

“He was your father.” 

For some reason, that strikes him as funny, and he laughs until he’s breathless and his head is in his hands again, fingers tangled in his hair. He gasps for oxygen, trying to ignore the stinging of his eyes and the tightness of his chest. “Oh, yeah, yeah he was, wasn’t he? So that explains why I set myself up for another disappointment, is it? That’s why I gave him one last damn _hug_.” The last word twists in his mouth and turns poisonous, more of a profanity than ‘damn’ could ever be. 

There is a buzzing in his ears that he is almost grateful for, because it blocks out the thoughts, the memories, and Wilson’s words if the other man is saying anything. The poison lingers, though, and he blinks in surprise at the container of Tic-tacs that have mysteriously appeared in his hand. Must have pulled it from his pocket; he’s been consuming them for weeks now. After staring in bemusement for a moment, he half-shrugs, tossing the five that are still in the container straight into his mouth, and is rewarded by the intense evergreen taste. It is an acute relief, this shift from poison to evergreen, and he wants to laugh again. Is this the kind of relief House feels whenever he pops a Vicodin? No wonder the man is always stoned. 

He drops the empty container to the floor, and stares at his hands as they come to rest on his knees. They are a doctor’s hands, though the long, graceful fingers tremble, lacking their usual steadiness. His father had had doctor’s hands too, though the fingers had been thicker and less nimble-looking. He cannot remember if his mother’s hands had been graceful, he just remembers how fragile and desperate they looked wrapped around her latest drink. Chase raises one hand and rubs his face again, as though to banish this entire day away. He swallows the Tic-tacs almost as an afterthought. “Cameron said my hate was toxic. She was wrong. My hope was, for convincing me that my father wouldn’t disappoint me _this_ time,” he says through the buzzing. 

And then the buzzing is gone, and there is only the silence of the room and Wilson’s soft, “How did he disappoint you this time?” 

He has almost forgotten that Wilson is even there (which is funny really, because if Wilson hasn’t been in the room, then he’s been talking to himself, and that’s definitely a sign of mental illness) and starts in his chair, blinking at the other man. Wilson is still standing there, arms lightly folded across his chest, dark eyes gentle and searching. There is no sense of judgment in that stance, and Chase finds himself understanding why even a man like House would confide in Wilson. 

Still, he frowns. Hasn’t he explained the disappointment? But no, he hasn’t, he realizes as he rethinks his words. He tries to speak, and the frown deepens as his breath catches in his throat and a lump lodges itself there. The words he is trying to say suddenly feel suspiciously like sobs. (He’ll be damned if he _cries_ in front of Wilson.) He clears his throat, trying to dislodge the lump, and then clears his throat again before he gets out, “I…I asked him what time his flight was, if he had time for a drink, and he said he wished he did.” 

He looks up, attempting an impassive look and knowing that his expression is instead despondent and probably quite pitiable. He’s never had a good poker face. “Why didn’t he take a later flight and go get a drink with me?” The ‘me’ cracks like a gunshot in his ears, and he feels himself heave, his entire body seizing up with acute misery. There is no vomit though, not this time, but instead sobs that propel their way out of his frame as sharp, agonized _mewling_ noises, and then Chase begins to bawl like a five-year-old while James Wilson stands in his living room and watches him. (He supposes he is damned then.) 

And then strong arms wrap around him and pull Chase close into a fierce hug that drags him from his hunched-over position on the chair and raises him onto his feet. He shudders and gasps between sobs, sobs between gasps (he isn’t quite sure which yet). His knees start to buckle, and he reaches out, clutching at Wilson’s coat like it’s some sort of a life-preserver. 

Words thrust their way out among the agonized noises. “S-see you. _See you._ What…what fucking stupid…last-last words! That bastard…he _knew_ and he could’ve…one drink._One._” And he is almost screaming now, and buries his face in Wilson’s shoulder to muffle the pained sounds, groaning, “One f-f-fucking call to the airport and we could’ve…he_knew_!” 

The rest of the words are swallowed up by the sobs, and he presses his face against the other man’s solid, reassuring presence, hands clenching and unclenching on Wilson’s coat until the tears subside. He takes in a deep, shaky breath then, and lifts his face, feeling dampness on his cheeks, and he realizes that he is at a total loss for words. He feels drained and empty, his entire body exhausted by the bone-rattling sobs.

Perhaps that shows on his face because Wilson’s voice is gentle as he says, “Let’s get you to bed.” 

He summons enough strength to nod, and ignores the twist in his gut as Wilson steps away from him and he loses contact with that solid presence. After all, Chase couldn’t possibly expect Wilson to let him hug him for the rest of the night like some giant teddy bear…. 

Chase leads the way to the bedroom, since there is no way for Wilson to know the interior of his apartment, and is too weary to offer any explanation for the spotlessness of the room, an immaculateness that makes the bedroom look unlived in. _(“Enough organization, enough lists, you think you can control the uncontrollable.  Fix her meds, fix her clothes, maybe you can even fix her,” he says to Foreman, and resists the urge to laugh when Foreman asks if he picked that up on his ‘psych rotation.’)_ 

He tugs at his now-rumpled tie, wishing his hands would stop shaking, and blinks as Wilson gets the tie off for him. Chase glances curiously at the other man, but apparently Wilson sees nothing odd in helping him undress, because the oncologist half-smiles and says, “Sit down, I’ll get your shoes and socks.” 

Chase sits before he even thinks to argue that he isn’t a kid and can get his own shoes off. Besides, it’s tempting just to sit there and let the other man do all the work, so incredibly tempting and easy to just close his eyes and half-doze as sure hands tug off his shoes and socks. He should probably get into a T-shirt and boxers, but he is already falling asleep in his pants and dress shirt (Italian and expensive, he suddenly remembers with a mental groan of dismay, and hopes there isn’t too much dried vomit). Besides, he very much doubts that Wilson is willing to help undress Chase _all_ the way. 

But apparently he was wrong, and is suddenly wide awake as Wilson’s hands go to his belt. “I can do that myself,” he assures the other man quickly, his voice paradoxically hoarse and squeaky, all at once, and he can feel heat prickle under his skin as he blushes, wishing for Foreman’s coloring so it wasn’t so _obvious._ 

Wilson looks amused at his discomfort and takes a step back from the bed. “You looked like you were falling asleep,” he explains, his hands dropping to his sides. He seems totally at ease that he was about to take off Chase’s pants -- then again, he lives with House, and has probably helped the man into bed time and time again after House has had one too many Vicodin. 

“I’m awake now,” Chase says, and at least for the moment it’s true; adrenaline has been pumping through his veins ever since the feel of Wilson’s hands on his waist, and he can heard the rapid pace of his own heartbeat in his ears. About to ask Wilson if he can grab him a T-shirt from the dresser, he decides to get it himself and grimaces at the mess he has made of his dress shirt as he fumbles with the buttons. Hopefully the dry-cleaners can get the stains out. 

Still fumbling with his shirt, he looks up at Wilson. “You can go now,” he informs him with an attempt at a smile, one that feels just as crooked and bitter as his earlier one. “I’m just going to change and go to sleep.” 

“And by changing you mean fiddle with the buttons on your shirt until you give up and fall into bed, right?” Wilson says, in almost the exact same tone he used to ask about the vodka. 

Chase is really tempted to glare, and opts for an eye-roll instead. Much less effort with the same point, even as he redoubles his efforts to unbutton his shirt without Wilson’s help. 

“I’m not a bloody _girl_,” he grumbles when Wilson’s hands reach out and steady his, and ignores the fact that with Wilson steadying him he manages to defeat the problematic buttons, and how warm and reassuring Wilson’s hands feel when they touch his. They are doctor’s hands, but without the usual accompanying methodical-feel, and Chase wonders how the other man pulls that off. 

“No, you’re not,” Wilson agrees in a mild tone. “But buttons are tricky even when you _haven’t_ had four gin and tonics and vomited them back up.” 

The roller-coaster ride of emotions has obviously wrecked havoc upon his physical reactions, because Chase inexplicably feels his cheeks heating again as he shrugs out of his shirt and reaches for a T-shirt. “That’s why T-shirts are the best invention since sliced bread,” he observes, trying to force the redness from his cheeks. “No buttons.” 

“Or zippers,” adds the other man with a slight smile, continuing the feeble joke.

Chase smiles less forcedly at that and fakes a shudder. “_Zippers_,” he repeats in a tone of immense disgust, and is rewarded by a soft chuckle from the oncologist. “The bane of mankind.” The last sentence is muffled as he tugs the T-shirt on over his head. Still smiling, he pauses. It feels odd, wearing a T-shirt and dress pants. He feels almost like a chimera for a moment, with his upper-half casual and his lower-half formal. 

“Speaking of zippers,” Wilson says, gesturing vaguely towards Chase’s waist and raising an eyebrow in silent question if the blonde needs help like he did with his shirt. 

“I can get this,” Chase hastily assures him, fighting back the prickling heat under his cheeks and managing _not_ to blush this time; he almost slumps in relief as Wilson nods and turns away to study his room. He fumbles with his belt and then the zipper of his pants for a moment, but his hands are steadier than before and there is only a panicked second where he thinks he might actually have to ask Wilson for help. 

Then he is only in his T-shirt and boxers, feeling as self-conscious as when he'd been a teenager with skinny legs and seemingly miles of pasty skin, back before he'd grown into his legs and gotten a healthy tan. He folds the pants neatly and puts it on top of his drawers, placing the belt next to them before he clears his throat and says, “Look, I can fall into bed now.” 

Wilson looks away from the painting he’s been studying -- the one truly personal item in the bedroom. _(The painting is of the Melbourne shoreline in full sunlight, a bright, brilliant image of splendor, and it is well worth all those weeks working as a delivery boy to see a smile light up his mother’s wan face and hear her soft, “It’s lovely, Robbie. This is a wonderful birthday present.”)_ The older man smiles slightly. “Looks like you can,” he agrees, and then gives Chase a long, searching look.

Chase resists the urge to squirm as Wilson studies him, and the smile he forces onto his lips feels fake and awkward. It is like when his mother would force his father into taking family pictures; as soon as the camera would focus on Chase, he’d forget how to smile, every twist of his lips feeling foreign. He struggles to make this smile real, because he suspects Wilson is the type to pull a chair into his bedroom and make sure he sleeps through the night if he feels Chase is still emotionally unstable. 

“Well?” he says after a moment, when Wilson says nothing. He tries to make his tone flippant, and has no clue if he succeeds. “Do I pass inspection, Doctor Wilson?” He resists the urge to salute, because that might make the shift from flippant to insolent. 

Perhaps the urge to salute is on his face, though, because Wilson looks amused as he nods and then adds lightly, “Not with flying colors by any means, but enough to warrant an unsupervised night.” 

The ‘especially since your car is still at the hospital so you can’t drive anywhere to get more alcohol’ hangs silently in the air, and Chase ignores its presence. Instead, he says, still attempting the light-hearted tone, “I know it’s hard for anyone to hide things from House, but please, try not to let on that I, um, cried like a girl? I think he has enough ammunition with the British and Catholic jokes.” 

“I’ll try,” Wilson promises, and Chase knows the other man _will_ try, and has already forgiven him if he fails. Everyone knows it’s impossible to hide things from House, after all. The oncologist sticks his hands in his pockets (the first time Chase has seen him do that the entire time, he realizes in surprise) and says firmly, “Page me if you need anything.”

Now Chase does salute him. “Yes, sir.” He flips back the covers on his bed and settles in, lethargy beginning to return as soon as he pulls the covers back up. The blankets pool around him, loose and non-confining, and he shifts for a moment just because he can. _(His mother smiles as she tucks him into bed, tight enough that his arms are pinned to his sides, snug enough that he is surprised that he can even wiggle his toes. When he comments on this, she laughs and rubs his hair like he’s some mischievous puppy. “It’s to keep you safe, silly,” she says before she presses a kiss to his lips that tastes of gin and tonic and then traipses from the room. He struggles in his cocoon but cannot raise his hand to rub the taste from his mouth -- he wonders if caterpillars feel this trapped. The gin and tonic lingers on his lips long after his mother and father’s separate bedroom doors have shut, until at last sleep takes pity on him and takes him to a land of dreams where mothers did not taste of alcohol and repentance.)_ 

He blinks, and realizes he’s lifted his hand to his mouth to rub away a kiss twenty years old. “Hey,” he says drowsily, and his voice stops Wilson in the doorway, “what did your mother’s kisses taste like?” 

Wilson turns and shoots him a curious look, but Chase doesn’t elaborate. “Her -- her kisses were always a surprise,” he answers after a moment, tone thoughtful. “They told me what food we were having for the next meal, though. She always tastes what she cooks. Lots of spices and herbs.”

He cannot quite see Wilson’s face from the bed, and even if he could, everything seems blurred and softened somehow. After a moment, Chase hears himself half-mumbling, the words sounding far away, almost in the other room, and he realizes, both amused and exasperated at himself, that he’s half-asleep and still trying to carry on a conversation. “My mum’s...usually gin and tonic, but sometimes, on good days-- On my eighth birthday, she baked a cake. A good day. I remember…she tasted like chocolate icing. No alcohol at all…. _Very_ good day.” His lips tug themselves downwards and he feels himself frown. “Don’t know about my dad. He doesn’t, um, didn’t…kiss people. Well, not me or my mum. Didn’t hug, either. Should’ve -- knew _something_ was off, when he hugged me back. Just didn’t think off meant dying, that’s all….” He closes his eyes, but everything seems detached, and there is no rush of grief or anger that comes with speaking of his father in the past tense. 

Chase opens his eyes at Wilson’s quiet, “I think that might be a guy thing. I’ve never seen my father kiss my mom, and he’s always just given me handshakes or one-armed hugs. Manly hugs, my mom calls them.” 

He looks at Wilson lounging in the doorway, hands tucked away in his pockets, and now his lips tug themselves upwards and he grins so widely that his cheeks ache. “Manly hugs?” he echoes, and thinks of sobbing into Wilson’s shoulder, the other man’s arms wrapped tight around him. That hadn’t been a ‘manly hug.’ 

“Manly hugs,” Wilson admits, and Chase can hear the smile in his voice. 

“You know what I think?” he hears himself say, but he never figures out what he thinks, because somehow in the span of time that the words slur their way off his tongue and Wilson’s reply, darkness steals him away to oblivion. 

And when he wakes up at 4:05 AM and sees Wilson slumped over in a char he’s dragged from the kitchen, he cannot help but laugh quietly, grateful that the hangover seems to be asleep as well. _(“Wilson has that Jewish mother hen stereotype down pat,” Foreman remarks, and Cameron and Chase nod as they watch Wilson scolding their employer, his expression earnest and exasperated as he thrusts a salad at House with one hand and deftly steals the greasy burger House is holding with the other.)_ 

For a moment, he just studies the other man's features, soften by apparently pleasant dreams, and almost laughs at himself as he recalls their conversation about kisses. Then he mentally rolls his eyes as a quiet voice in the back of his mind wonders what, exactly, Wilson's kisses would taste like. That is a dangerous thought, and one he quickly thrusts to the deepest, darkest corner of his mind, and attempts to forget about, even as he continues to study the planes of the other man's face and smile at the brown strands flopping in front of the other man's closed eyes.

He cannot help but acknowledge to himself, however, that Wilson's kisses would be preferable to his mother's -- certainly, they wouldn't taste like gin and regret. 

**Terms:**  
_Requiem aeternam dona defunctis, Domine_ -- Eternal rest give unto them, O Lord  
_Dies irae, dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla_ -- This day, this day of wrath, shall consume the world in ashes  



End file.
